


Soulbound: Morrowind

by Griffinswings



Series: Soulbound [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Divergence, Canon Temporary Character Death, Gen, M/M, Multi, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8299351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griffinswings/pseuds/Griffinswings
Summary: A Great House Noble boy is taken by Worm Cultists and sacrificed to the Daedric Prince of Brutality, but for Azaryne Redoran, his true journey begins with the end.Follow our hero as he explores the world of Tamriel, forges friendships, romance and fights to take back his soul!Soulbound loosely follows the plot of ESO, using it as a springboard to explore original characters and their relationships.





	1. The Last Day

**Author's Note:**

> Finally uploading to AO3. There's 200 pages written non-consecutively so far, and this is hardly scratching the surface, but I'm making a conscious effort to write in a more chronological order that will make posting it convenient.  
> This story is intended to be told over five arcs: Morrowind, Orsinium, Unite Tamriel, Imperial City, and Coldharbour.  
> I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> (Chapter 2 is also now finished, so you can read in order at last!)

 

    It was hard to tell if the pain in his head was from a blow or the fall. Azaryne could still taste the bitter flavor of sleeping magic on his tongue, but it was impossible to determine the source.

    Taking inventory of his body, he realized that his hands were carefully bound together by thick rope. There was barely enough room to keep from stopping circulation, and certainly no opportunity to wriggle free. His cheek was pressed against a cold, musty smelling surface. As his vision came into focus, he realized he was lying on a cobbled stone floor.

    Memories swam through his mind groggily as he fought to remember where he was-- or at least where he had been the last time he was conscious. He could hear a girl’s voice… The clashing of steel…

     _"Oh, come on Meril!" Eralane shouted._

     _She dropped her sword arm in frustration and shook her head, pulling more strands of hair from her disheveled braid. Merilius's face was pale and sweaty, and Azaryne wondered for a moment if he might be about to retch._

     _"Take it easy." He said to Eralane, stepping away from his own archery target and toward the sparring pair. "This is his first real training session. Don't you remember when you were 15?"_

     _"Az, how is he going to learn to fight if he can't even see an opportunity when it dances in front of him?" Eralane demanded. "I could put down my weapon and stand here with my arms stretched out and he still wouldn't hit me."_

     _Azaryne watched as Meril's complexion somehow went even paler than it had been as his sister attempted to pantomime her suggested situation._

     _Az put down his longbow and unstrapped his quiver, setting them carefully to the side before moving to the weapon rack and picking up a long blunted sword. He shooed his sister away with a wave of his hand and stepped into the rope circle that had been laid into the dirt._

     _He slid his feet into a comfortable fighting stance and presented his weapon to the terrified boy before him._

     _"It's..." He started, thoughtfully, looking at the rounded point of his blade. Meril shook silently in front of him, his already wide red eyes stretching open even further, as though convinced that in this moment he was about to die._

     _"Imagine it's a game of tag." Az said finally. He stepped forward in a slow, fluid motion and tapped his brother on the side. "But with longer arms."_

     _A smile rose to Azaryne's lips as he watched Meril's face soften slightly, and heard Eralane scoffing loudly from behind them._

     _"So now, you're It. But, it doesn't count if you only hit my sword. So try to tag part of my body, alright?"_

     _Meril nodded, shakily raising his own sword and looking over Az with darting eyes._

    Azaryne groaned, screwing his eyes shut. He attempted to pull his head up off of the ground, but only managed to inch forward toward the thick metal bars that lined what must have been his cage.

    The sound of footsteps echoed through a stone walled corridor. It was then that he realized that even within the cage he was not alone. There were other bodies, bound as he was but far more alert, leaning against bars, each other…

    He did not recognize any of the faces that he saw. Judging by their clothing, they were mostly commoners and servants, and a man in House Telvanni robes. There were a few Argonian slaves, and even children.

    He could only assume that he must be the latest addition to whatever twisted gathering they were assembled for.

     _When Meril stepped forward to land his blow, Az did not stand still. Instead, he moved very slowly and exaggeratedly, as though moving through water, to evade the attack. The older boy brought up his own weapon to parry the blow and stepped gracefully to the side, nodding encouragingly._

     _He stepped forward and tried again and again, each movement faster than the last; slashing in broad arcs which Az would parry with a swift tap of his own weapon, or thrusting timidly as Az easily evaded. After a few minutes, they were almost moving at full speed, with short bursts of laughter filling the air just as often as the clashing of steel._

     _"See, you're doing so well!" Az chuckled to the boy as he sidestepped another forceful swing. "Keep this up and you'll be a better fighter than even father."_

     _Merilius fought to keep from snorting loudly as he swung his sword again._

     _"Sure." He replied. "And I suppose you'll be a dance instructor, with all your fancy footwork."_

     _Az's expression suddenly turned deathly serious, and Meril's movements stopped in their tracks. However, instead of swinging to hit back, Azaryne sunk into a regal bow._

     _"My dear serjo, may I have this dance?" He said, articulating each word with every bit of formality that he could muster with a straight face._

     _After a brief moment they both burst into laughter so loud and so mirthful that Az fully buckled to his knees, allowing Meril to step forward and tap him on the chest._

     _"And now, you're It." Meril said, fighting to catch his breath._

     _"Yes, I am." Az responded. He wiped tears from his eyes with the back of his hand and moved to stand and brush himself off._

     _However, he suddenly felt a firm grip on his shoulder, and he knew immediately from the size of the palm whose hand it was._

    As the footsteps grew nearer, he saw shadows emerging from the halls. Black robed figures, led by an Altmer with long white hair and a pointed circlet and a staff carved of wood as black as night.

    Black cloaked mages..?

    Necromancers?

    But that didn’t make sense.

    Unless… No.

     _Azaryne coughed loudly and sprung to attention, causing Merilius to drop his weapon to do the same._

     _"Playing games? On your brother's first day training with the others? Are you really that foolish?"_

     _Azaryne’s mouth opened and closed again like a fish, searching for words to defend himself. However, before he could come up with a good explanation, Meril had already begun._

     _"Father, he was helping me!" Meril blurted out from behind him. Az closed his eyes in regret._

     _Now he had truly done it._

     _"You call this helping, Azaryne?” His father demanded. "Do you think that in the heat of battle, an enemy will just 'play tag'? Do you think that at war--"_

     _"But we aren't at war!" Azaryne protested._

     _"Not right now, we aren't, but we could be at any time! We could be invaded, or there could be an uprising. It's happened before, and it's my duty as the leader of House Redoran to ensure that our troops are ready for battle whenever that might happen. And it is your duty to be learning what you can from me, because one day this will be your duty. That is the honor and privilege of your noble birth, but instead of doing what is right, you choose to do what is easiest!”_

    Az suddenly found the strength to sit up, wrestling himself upright despite the bonds at his wrists and ankles. As the mages approached the cage, Az heard one of the children behind him whimper. He instinctively looked around for a blade-- a bow-- a club-- anything that might be able to be turned into a weapon. His own swords were gone from his side, leaving him hopelessly vulnerable even after all of his military training.

    One of the mages carried an urn filled to the brim with something shimmering and purple. Azaryne thought he recognized the clinking of the animus crystals they used at the fort to power enchanted weapons.

     _He folded his arms and looked away from his father's indignant scowl. There was nothing that he could do to protest. Regardless of his intentions, he hadn't followed the exact rules, and was therefore in the wrong. Despite his lack of response, his father began speaking again, further drilling home his disappointment._

     _"There are many of your kinsmen who have worked hard to earn what you were gifted by blood, and you continue to disrespect that." He raised a hand, quoting from their own house words, "Life is hard, and events must be judged, endured, and reflected upon with due care and earnestness. A light--"_

     _"--careless life is not worth living."_

     _Azaryne froze as he realized he had been muttering under his breath. His father's face grew dark and Az watched as his jaw tightened so furiously that Azaryne thought the older man might burst a blood vessel._

     _"You are not a child anymore, Azaryne. And I expect you to stop behaving as such."_

     _Azaryne swallowed hard, fighting to keep himself steady on his feet as the back of his throat began to burn. His father, seeming to understand his surrender, raised a hand to his own forehead and after a moment, quietly spoke._

     _"I am sending you to Mournhold." He said._

    “Ready the sacrifices.” Their leader spoke evenly.

     _Az couldn't contain a grunt of protest. His father, however, ignored him._

    The white haired mer leaned forward, eyes alight with greed as he peered through the bars.

     _"You will stay at the Redoran kinhouse and do some work there for the Tribunal. Maybe that will put some sense into you. Go home and pack your things."_

    Az closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, determined not to give in to terror.  He squared his shoulders defiantly, forcing his face blank and willed himself to meet the eyes of his captors. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing his fear.

    “From tonight on,” The necromancer said slowly, “your souls belong to Molag Bal.”

 

⁂

 

     _It was all Az could do to scowl angrily at the ground, refusing to meet his father's eye. He bitterly registered that Meril, behind him, was quaking like a leaf once again. Eralane simply stared at him, her face fighting between a silent "I'm sorry" and "I told you so"._

     _As his father marched back to the other troops, he beckoned behind him for Meril and Eralane to follow. Meril took a small step forward before looking pleadingly into his older brother's eyes._

     _"I'm sorry." he mouthed._

     _Az shook his head in answer, trying his best to give a reassuring smile._

     _"I'll miss you." Meril whispered, now backing slowly toward the path his father was leading._

     _"I won't be far." Az whispered back, now fighting back tears. "You can come visit. I won't be gone long. I'll see you again soon."_

     _Eralane shepherded Meril onward with a final sigh and shrug._

     _"Try not to cause_ too _much trouble." She muttered, making sure her father was out of earshot. "I want Almsivi to trust me when I get there, not think of you and your ridiculous exploits."_

     _She punched him teasingly in the arm before raising two fingers to laxly to her forehead in a half hearted salute. The tension broke within him and he let out a genuine chuckle._

     _"Thanks." he said sarcastically._

     _"Any time." Era replied, and with that she turned on her heel and fell into step behind Meril._

     _Azaryne folded his arms and sighed. He could take a short walk before packing his things, he decided. It wasn't as though he would be able to ready his horse for Mournhold until morning either way._

     _As he made his way down the bank of the inlet, he could hear a familiar trotting footfall behind him._

     _"Blackjack!" He called._

     _He turned to see the mutt bounding up behind him, tongue lolling out as he panted in the humid summer air. Together, they walked along the water’s edge until they reached a small shelter._

     _After dropping his pack and bow gently on the ground, Azaryne pulled the old fishing tarp from atop a pile of blankets and flopped down dramatically. He stared at the crudely made awning above, frowning absently as he mulled through the day’s events in his mind. Blackjack, however, seized the opportunity to lope forward and begin licking Azaryne’s face. He, in turn, sat bolt upright, laughing as he fought to push the dog away._

     _“Okay, okay!” Az shouted “Stop, stop, stop. I get it. No more moping.”_

     _Blackjack responded by settling down on his hind legs, an almost satisfied expression on his face. He quirked his head to one side as the boy leaned back against a woven basket to face him._

     _“They’re sending me to Mournhold.” He explained quietly to the dog. “Well,_ he _is. My father. He wants me to learn a lesson in responsibility or gravity or something equally stupid… He doesn’t get it. If he’d just show Meril a little patience, he’d be a great fighter. He just cracks under pressure. You’d think he’d notice this by now, but no…”_

     _He sighed heavily and picked up a smooth stone from beside him, turning it over in his hands._

     _“I never really wanted to be a soldier. I’m just not cut out for it, I think.” He said quietly._

     _A moment passed in which he had to forcibly stop himself from dwelling too deeply on the subject before he earned himself more slobbery pick-me-up kisses._

     _“That means I won’t be here to feed you for a while,” He started again with forced brightness, “ so you’ll have to learn to hunt your own guar. If muthsera Moreleth finds you sniffing around their trash again, he’ll probably start poisoning it, and I don’t need you getting hurt while I’m away, alright?”_

     _Blackjack lay his head down on the boy’s leg in response and heaved a sigh as Az scratched behind the mutt’s ears._

     _“Maybe this will all work out alright.” Azaryne said hopefully. “I’ll get to do a bit of travelling, strike out on my own… Maybe I’ll even make a decent first impression for Eralane. You know how she’s always wanted to be an Ordinator. It won’t be so bad, I’m just being bitter.”_

     _With a flick of his wrist, he skipped the stone across the water of the bay, counting until with a final splash it sank.  Silence had set in as the sun lowered on the horizon, and as Azaryne watched the lanterns of the fortress light up one by one, he knew he needed to start heading home._

     _He spent a brief moment tidying the small shelter he had created, took down the few strips of half-dried meat that hung on the drying rack, and, tossing them to Blackjack, made his way back around the shore._

     _The tide had come back in, causing the path he had originally walked to become quite narrow, and so Blackjack trotted along behind him, single file._

     _It wasn’t long, however, before he heard other footsteps, and those footsteps caused a rumbling growl from the dog behind him._

     _Azaryne turned to see dark figures moving through the shadows._

     _His heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t dark enough yet for them to blend in so thoroughly without magical aid. But who might be using stealth magic at dusk? Were they bandits?_

     _He quickened his pace and fought to keep his eyes straight ahead. If he could make it back to the fortress before they were able to get close, he thought, they might move on to some other passerby. But if he were to start sprinting, they might draw weapons and give chase._

     _He heard Blackjack stop behind him, growling all the more fiercely._

     _“C’mon.” Az whispered sharply. “Blackjack, let’s go.”_

     _But Blackjack stayed. The figures were growing closer. Too close now to hope to get away, so instead Az drew his bow and nocked an arrow, aiming in their vague direction. Even if he couldn’t see precisely where they were, if there were multiple of them, he might have a chance to hit one. Or at the very least, it was a decent bluff of a threat._

     _His breathing quickened as the figures grew closer, but pinpricks on the back of his neck told him that there was something behind as well._

     _He felt something blunt hit him squarely between the shoulders, and he turned in time to see a black hood over a fair skinned face just before the wind left his lungs and his vision went black._

 

⁂

 

    That was right. He had been heading back home to pack his things and then…

    The necromancers left him no time for further thought. He found himself being roughly grabbed by either arm and instinctively elbowed his captors. The Altmer strutted to the front of the sea of black cloaks and languidly lit the candles that lined the walls.

    “My servants.” He began, pausing over a candle. “Tonight, we begin preparations for the remaking of our world. Soon, I will possess the key to breaking the veil between this realm and the realm of our great and powerful master. Those who remain valuable will be granted power. Those who do not, will be put to other uses.”

    Azaryne was being dragged forward now, despite his attempts to resist. He knew it would do little good. He was surrounded, outnumbered, and unarmed. But, still, he would not give himself up without a fight.

    His futile struggling, however, drew only murmurs of laughter from the necromancers in the crowd, and soon he found himself detained not only physically, but magically. A wave of a hand from the Altmer in charge stopped his movements immediately. His limbs felt as though they had been tied down to steel weights.  No matter how he tried, he could no longer budge an inch.

    The Altmer looked at him with bored amusement before turning to once again address his audience.

    “With every soul we capture and take to Coldharbour, its connection to Nirn grows stronger. Once the veil is torn, Molag Bal will already have what he needs to begin merging our worlds together. After that, it is only a matter of time…”

    With that, he was laid out on the stone altar lined with candles. His heart pounded in his chest, every part of him screaming at him to run, to fight, to scream for help, but even his voice remained resolutely muted. The ropes that had bound him were cut and his arms placed at his side without his permission. His throat burned hot as the Altmer waved his hand once more and he felt a cold tingling in his chest attaching itself to something deep within him.

    “God of Schemes! Lord of Brutality! Father of Vampires!” The Altmer cried out. “We offer these victims to become your slaves! We spill their blood and give you their souls so that you may begin to tether our worlds!”

    He could not move. He could not even close his eyes or brace for what was to come.  The magic held him captive as a silent witness to his own death. The cold feeling in his chest was lifting.

    “Through the power of innocent blood, we ask that Coldharbour remake Nirn in its own image!”

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    There was a flash of the knife in the candlelight, a burst of pain, emptiness… and then nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Coldharbour

    Years had passed. How many, he did not know. Time was just one of the things he no longer had the ability to recall or even understand. 

    When he tried, all he could remember was a sharp pain in his chest, followed by emptiness, and a period of darkness before waking here as he always did. 

    Where there had once been family, friends, there were now faceless silhouettes. Memories of home-- the lush, fungal forests-- had faded to the same barren black rock and ash that covered Coldharbour. 

    And he…

    He didn’t even recall who he was anymore. Through the fog and haze of the torturous years, all he had managed to hold onto was a name. 

    Azaryne.

    The Dremora used it to call him in from the forge.

    Azaryne.

    Others once used it in softer, gentle tones, he was sure.

    Azaryne.

    His own name. Of all the things they took from him-- his life, his memories, even his soul-- ripped each of them out and replaced them with something less valuable, more convenient… His name he had kept. It was the last part of himself that he had the fight left to protect. 

    The only space he had to call his own was a small cell. While it was not locked from the outside often, its bars served to keep out the more feral Soul Shriven. 

    “Soul Shriven”, they were called-- those who’d had their souls taken in sacrifice to Molag Bal. People like him. 

        The pile of molding furs and cloths that served as bedding were only moderately less filthy than the rags he had been given to wear. Even the water in Coldharbour was rare and foul-- often mixed with ash and dust. The Daedra did not need it to survive, and so it was a luxury not eagerly afforded to the mortals who had been brought as slaves. In its stead, rivers of thick, blue creatia ran across the ground, forever expanding both the land and its native population.

        Inside of a loose stone in the wall, Azaryne had stashed his small collection of personal treasures: a set of keys to the cell bars; a small rusted blade, which he used for defense, and when he could get his hands on small chunks of wood, whittling; and an array of lost or stolen personal items from other Soul Shriven. 

        Though these objects themselves were inherently valueless in Coldharbour, Azaryne would often spend time imagining what significance they could have held to their previous owners, and inventing elaborate tales to pass the hours. 

        Today, the object of choice was a tooth necklace taken from a Soul Shriven Nord. He imagined that the tooth itself was from their own first kill. They had been just a child when they wandered too far and were attacked by a mammoth. It was a long and epic battle, involving several arrows, a broken bow and finally, a hatchet, when the mammoth fell at last.

        It occurred to him that a mammoth tusk must be much larger than the tiny tooth that he held in his hands, but for the sake of his story, he imagined that it had been shrunken down with powerful magic. 

        A clanking of cell bars drew his attention from his own thoughts as he lay on the furs on the ground. He scrambled to hide the tooth necklace somewhere on his person, hoping that when the guards inevitably rounded the corner, he could look lifeless enough to not be chosen for the next torture session. 

        However, to his surprise, it was not a Daedric face that appeared between the bars of his cell door, nor was it the gaunt pale face of another Soul Shriven. It was unmistakably human. 

        Azaryne quietly got to his feet for a better look. She stood at least a foot taller than his full height, and despite her stocky frame, her face was kind and soft. A long jagged scar ran over her left eye, and her golden hair was swept back into a braid.

        She seemed startled by his movement. 

        “Woah…” She said cautiously, taking a step closer toward the bars of his cell. “Are you alright?”

        He nodded slowly in response, and without a wasted second, she began fiddling with the padlock on the door. 

        “My name’s Lyris.” She said breathlessly, glancing behind her. “You look like you’ve got some fight left. You’re going to need it.”

        Azaryne opened his mouth to speak, but the words were lost on their way from his throat. It had been so long since he had made conversation. His voice felt as though it were covered in rust.

        His thoughts were interrupted when Lyris brought a large battle axe swiftly down on the cell’s rusted lock. It fell apart in a great crash of metal on metal, and the door swung open. 

_ So much for those keys _ , he thought. 

        He hesitantly followed as Lyris disappeared from view. As he pushed open the grate, he saw her kneeling next to a dremora body. His heart skipped a beat.

        “Dead.” She said calmly. “Must have been the runt of the litter.” 

        He looked around nervously. When he was sure that there were no other daedra or Soul Shriven in the room, he approached the nord. 

        She picked up a dagger from the dremora’s side and held it out to him. He fought hard not to flinch. 

        “Keep this ready and stay sharp.” she said, standing up. “This place is full of surprises.”

        He nodded, turning the dagger over in his hands. It was sharper than his carving knife by far, and had a good weight in his hands. He twirled his wrist a bit experimentally, but Lyris caught him by the arm. 

        “Keep moving, there are more daedra on the way!”

        Azaryne nodded. 

        They moved quickly through the halls of the prison, padding silently against the cold stone floor. As they continued in, a sort of buzzing sound began to echo through the halls, but as they approached an open room with a massive door, Azaryne realized that the ‘buzz’ had been the muffled roar of daedric voices. 

        A Soul Shriven Argonian stood before the door, his arms spread wide against it as a thunderous banging came from the other side. 

        Noticing Azaryne’s stare, the Argonian waved a hand frantically in the direction of the eastern hallway. 

        “Don’t stop now! Go, go!” He cried out. 

        Heart beating faster in his chest, Azaryne was happy to oblige. It wasn’t long before he and Lyris came across a pair of guards blocking the way to a door frame which appeared to be the only way out of the room. Following Lyris’s lead, Azaryne slowed to a stop and looked up, waiting for her signal. With a quick glance backward toward him and a nod, Lyris charged at the fore. The guards drew their weapons, pointed and lethally sharp, glinting in the cold torchlight. 

        Lyris dodged backwards as the first guard made a swing for her head, sword whistling through the air as it missed. She sidestepped nimbly and hit the dremora squarely in the back with an elbow, causing it to stumble forward. The second guard took the opportunity to swing a great mace downward, hoping to crush from above. 

        She blocked the attack with her axe, letting the shaft of the weapon fall into the curve of the blade and within an instant, had wrenched it to the side, disarming the dremora. However, just as soon as she had raised her axe to finish it off, the first guard had raised its sword to pierce into her exposed back. 

        Biting his tongue and relying entirely on instinct, Azaryne rushed around the corner and, from behind, drove his dagger up through the ribcage of the guard. It sputtered and turned as Azaryne withdrew his blade, but Lyris had finished her fight and focused in on the new target. 

        With a single swing, she took off the head of the second guard, splattering black blood across Azaryne’s face and up onto the ebon forged face of the mechanical door. 

        “Well played, my friend.” Lyris huffed, lowering her weapon. “Arkay’s beard, you are good in a fight.”

        A cheerful grin tugged at her mouth, and Azaryne returned her smirk. His throat felt tight as he opened his mouth to respond, but no sooner than the words formed in his mind, a blue light appeared behind Lyris. A swarm of what looked like transparent blue moths took shape into that of a person. Within seconds, an old man in tattered robes was magically projected before them. 

        As though a whisper, the figure spoke across his own mind, tracing the message into his very thoughts. 

_        Greetings, Vestige... Like you, I am a prisoner in this place. You must rescue me. And I, in turn, must rescue you. _

        He blinked as the figure disintegrated almost as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Azaryne wondering if he alone had seen this vision. As though an answer to his question, however, Lyris spoke.

        “The Prophet!” She exclaimed, looking back to Azaryne. For a moment, her expression was indiscernible, almost evaluating as she looked him over. 

        Azaryne raised an eyebrow. 

        “The… Prophet?” He asked quietly, glancing furtively behind him. 

        As though breaking out of a haze, Lyris’s eyes focused on him with new clarity. 

        “Yes.” She replied. “He’s a prisoner here, too. It was very dangerous for him to speak to you, even for a moment. He must think you can help me.”

        “Help you with what?” Azaryne asked, brows furrowing. 

        “To break him out, of course.” She said, banging one fist into her open palm. “Believe me, I can use all the help I can get. That blind old man is the only person alive who can help us get back home. Tamriel’s a long way from here…”

        As Lyris placed a hand to the frame, the ebon door swung open, large plates sliding into the walls and floor.

        “These tunnels will eventually take us to the Tower of Eyes.” She said, stepping through the door frame. “That’s where we’ll find the Sentinels— Magical constructs created by Molag Bal to guide his vision in Coldharbour.”

        For all his time in Coldharbour so far, Azaryne had never seen these ‘Sentinels’. He tried to imagine what these must look like— Dremoran figures towering high above him, still like statues, gaze piercing as they watched over the foundry.

        Lyris was moving on ahead of him, so he shook his head clear of the image and continued on. After a brief moment of silence, Azaryne spoke again.

        “The Prophet called me ‘Vestige’. What does that mean?” he asked. 

        “Well,” Lyris started hesitantly. “ there is no easy way to say it. You're dead.”

        “Dead?” Azaryne frowned. 

        Of course. The memories of the darkness, the pain in his chest… 

        “A man named Mannimarco killed you.” Lyris replied lowly, stopping to peek around a corner.  “His Worm Cult is doing some kind of ritual back in Tamriel... They sacrificed you— and everyone in this prison— to the Daedric Prince Molag Bal. After you died, whatever was left showed up here.”

        ‘Vestige’. A fragment of his former self. He mulled the word over in his mind and cringed as though the word was bitter on his tongue. 

        “Does that mean you’re dead too?” Azaryne whispered.

        “No.” Lyris said, waving him forward once more. “I wasn’t sacrificed. The Prophet and I were brought here… conventionally, if that makes any sense. But we’re prisoners here, same as you.”

        Suddenly, the voice of the Prophet traced across his mind once more, stopping his heart in his chest.

_ The God of Brutality knows of your escape. Hurry! _

        By the third set of guards they encountered, Azaryne was beginning to get the hang of his dagger. However, he was not overly fond of the weapon. He knew he was no caster, but he wondered if he might prefer a longsword or a mace. Somehow the small weapon made him feel exposed.          

        As they made their way through the gate and into the open foundry yards it was clear that they would need a different approach. Given the sheer number of guards and Soul Shriven, they wouldn’t be able to sneak by unnoticed. However, with enough luck they may be able to pass for workers if they deadened their eyes and kept their weapons low.

        Without a word, they each immediately moved to either side of a large cart of ebony ore, Lyris stuffing her axe into the rocks and Azaryne hiding his dagger. Lyris led on up a winding path filled with dremora overseers armed with whips and assorted weapons.  

        Azaryne’s heart hammered in his chest. Everything about this was wrong. If they slipped up just once they would be caught… beaten… killed, again and again. He had done his best to avoid the harsher punishments of Coldharbour, but he had experienced its torments all the same. It took all of his strength to look up and meet Lyris’s gaze as they headed up the ramp to where the sentinels must have been. 

        However, something about the spark in her eyes eased his mind. Despite the danger and the gravity of her quest,  Lyris had a spirit of adventure about her every move. It was contagious. 

        When they finally arrived at the top of the winding ramp, the sentinels came into view. As it would happen, the sentinels were little like what he had imagined. Large glowing daedric eyes, staring unblinkingly down at the foundry below. 

        There were two dremora guards between them and the nearest sentinel’s tower, and so the two unburied their weapon and settled the cart of ore. 

        “You take the one on the left, I’ll take the one on the right?” Az asked. 

        “Sounds good to me.” Lyris smiled. 

        Azaryne waited for his guard to turn to the side before quickly running forward, his dagger at his side. The guard turned to him, brandishing a long sword. However, that split second was all that Azaryne needed. He stepped around the dremora in a circle, keeping just behind it as it swung. He ducked, letting the sword fly clearly over his head, and took the opportunity to carve a deep gouge into the dremora’s leg.

        It stumbled forward, grasping at its leg with its free hand and swinging the sword wildly for Az. When it realized that again, Azaryne was behind it, it drew back its elbow and brought back the pommel directly into Azaryne’s abdomen. 

        He coughed, buckling forward, but kept his eyes on his opponent. When the dremora again turned to face him and jabbed for his stomach with its sword, Azaryne swiftly parried with his dagger, using his free hand to swing at the dremoras face. 

        His blow hit its jaw with a crack and the daedra’s head fell back, leaving Azaryne free to slice deeply into its throat. The dremora’s sword dropped and clattered against the ebon rock ground. He watched as the body fell first to its knees and then hit the floor and exhaled. 

        He turned to Lyris who had finished her guard as well, kicking it over from its side to its front. As she did, however, something caught his eye about the bloodied daedra on the ground: its weapon. A bow and quiver were attached to its back, arrows spilling out over its fallen shoulder. 

        Azaryne gestured to Lyris to wait before picking the weapon up and looking it over. Something about the feel of it felt familiar as he turned the daedric weapon over in his hands. He couldn’t quite place it, but it felt… right. He was drawn to it with a childlike curiosity and yet the sureness of a skilled hunter.

        He drew an arrow and nocked it on the bow, experimentally pulling the string toward him and then slowly letting it return. 

        He became so enchanted that when Lyris spoke up behind him, he jumped, turning wildly and pointing the bow at her chest. 

        “Stendarr! Put that down!” she gasped, jumping as well. 

        “Sorry!” He said, lowering it. “Sorry…” 

        She took a deep breath, chuckling. “Just keep that trained on the enemy, alright? We don’t need any mishaps.”

       Lyris paused, putting a hand to her chin. 

       “Actually…” She murmured, “the sentinels should be visible from just around this corner. Why don’t you see if you can shoot it from here?”

        Azaryne nodded. It was worth a try, he supposed.

        He rounded the corner carefully, training his eyes on the massive daedric eye. Would one shot alone do it? Or would it simply anger it, causing Molag Bal’s focus to fall upon them instead. 

        He took a deep, shaky breath and nocked an arrow, pulling back the string and taking aim. He let the breath out and loosed it, letting it soar up through the air and…

        It hit!

        All at once, with a sound like a quenching fire, the eye dissolved into a cloud of smoke. 

        “Great shot,” Lyris said, waving him back around the corner. “Now I see why you were so drawn to the thing. Now, let’s get to the Prophet’s cell.”

        Despite their best efforts, by the time they reached the Prophet’s cell, it had been warded with Daedric magic. Azaryne guessed that with such a high-value prisoner, Molag Bal must have taken every precaution, especially when his sentinels were downed. However, just as they were beginning to feel hopeless, the sound of a lute floated by, along with a voice.

_        “One fine day, in the middle of the night… two dead kings got up to fight.” _

       “Cadwell.” Lyris muttered. “Of course!”

       She took off at a sprint, leaving Azaryne trailing behind her.

_        “Back to back they faced each other, drew their bows, and stabbed themselves!” _

       An old Soul Shriven with a grayed handlebar mustache and a cooking pot atop his head sat on a bench before a firepit surrounded by other dead-eyed soulless listeners. He lowered his lute as they approached.

       “Hello,” the old man said buoyantly, “what’s this? Out for a stroll then? Lovely day for it.”

       Azaryne glanced awkwardly to Lyris, who looked to him with a sort of knowing. 

       “Are you… Cadwell?” Azaryne asked. 

       “Sir Cadwell, yes indeed. A pleasure!” Cadwell responded. He offered is hand briefly before looking up at Lyris’s towering figure.

       “And fair Lyris! Good to see you, m’dear! How are you then?”

       “We’re trying to get inside the Prophet’s Cell.” Lyris started. “The door is sealed.”

       At this the old man raised the lute in front of his face and hid behind it, glancing from side to side. 

       “Oh dear, oh dear.” He muttered. “Well, that is inconvenient, isn’t it? Tell you what—” He grinned, lowering the lute, “I happen to know another way in! Much more of a scenic route. Rather a fun little jaunt, actually. Full of traps, and corpses, and nasty beasties filling up the bits in between.”

       Azaryne wondered for a brief moment if the man was simply being sarcastic, but he had the impression that he may be truly delusional. 

       “Great.” Az said. “So you can get us through all that?”

       Cadwell shook his head. 

       “I can tell you the route! You’ll have to be rather cautious, I expect. Watch your step, hold your nose, and do mind the traps. There’ll like as not be a fair dose of running and skull-bashing as well.”

       “Which way do we go?” Lyris said brightly. She squared her shoulders and circled her axe arm in a stretch. 

       “Follow the river. You’ll find the door to the Undercroft at the water’s end. Once you’re inside, stick to the light and you’ll find a ladder that will take you right up to the Prophet, straightaway.”

       Lyris nodded before stepping forward and following the river with her eyes. She motioned for him to follow and waved back at the old man as a goodbye.

       “Thanks, Cadwell— er, Sir Cadwell.” Azaryne said before moving to catch up with Lyris down the river of thick blue creatia. 

       “Do give him my best!” Cadwell called after them.

       When they were far out of earshot, Lyris turned to Azaryne and quietly spoke.

       “Cadwell seems to think this Undercroft is a delightful place.” She smirked. “That probably means it’s a death trap. We’d better be careful.”

  
  


       As they made their way to the undercroft, they both made sure not to step in the river that marked their path. Their footprints glowed with the weight of their steps in the sodden dirt. 

       As expected, there was a fair share of fighting to be done. Skeletons, zombies and feral Soul Shriven alike had found their way into the Undercroft, and by the time they reached the exit, they were both covered in a fair layer of gore and sweat. 

       As Cadwell has said, the undercroft led straight to the other side of the Prophet’s cell. Azaryne made note that if he ever found himself in trouble in Coldharbour, he would locate Cadwell straight away.

       Upon entering the room, Azaryne noticed a figure hovering above them in the center of a dais. His arms were held shackled at his sides by Daedric magic, and the cage itself was more a series of ripples in space than bars of iron.

       “Alright.” Lyris said as they entered the room. “The good news is, we made it here in one piece, and the Prophet looks unharmed…”

       Azaryne looked to her, bracing for the inevitable news to follow.

       “Now, the bad news.” She said. “It’s going to be up to you to keep him safe and get him back to Tamriel. I’m not going with you.”

       “What?” He asked, his breath hitching in his lungs. 

       “There’s a trick to opening the cell.” She said quietly. “The only way for a prisoner to leave is for another living soul to take their place. I need to swap places with the Prophet.”

       She gave a weak smile which he could not return.

       “There’s no other way?” He asked.

       “Believe me,” She said, “I wish there was. But… I don’t see anyone else here with a beating heart, do you? If Molag Bal isn’t stopped he’ll destroy everyone and everything we’ve ever loved.”

       Azaryne swallowed, looking away in thought. She was right. There was no other choice.

       “Okay.” He said. “Are you ready?”

       She nodded.

       “Once it’s done, get moving. The Prophet will know where to go, but he’ll need your eyes, and your protection.”

       With that, she stepped forward onto the dias.

       As if in response to her touch, two pinions rose from either side of the dias and floated a few feet in the air. The black metal Daedric filigree was closed tightly around a center orb of light. 

       Lyris yelped in surprise as she was lifted unstably into the air by a matching bright light at her feet and a whirling sound began to surround them.

       “What do I do?” Az called against the sound.

       “I don’t know!” Lyris cried back. “Try doing something with those pinions!”

       He ran to the nearest one and examined it, unsure of how to operate the magical machine. Experimentally, he thrust his hand into the center light and grasped for whatever may be inside. 

       All at once a rush of energy filled him, jolting like lightning through his bones and discharging at his feet. He barely had time to rip his hand away before the pinion closed up and was suctioned back to the floor. 

       Lyris yelled as she was lifted higher, evenly with the Prophet.

       “Whatever that was, do that again!” She called down.

       “Right!” 

       When the second pinion had closed, a deep thrum echoed through the room. For a moment, he could see the white light of the souls in both of their bodies as they were tethered together by particles of light. 

       Within an instant, they had swapped places, and the old man in tattered robes descended before him.

       “Freedom!” He cried. The look of relief on his face was mirrored in every part of his body as he tested his feet beneath him.

       “I remember this feeling.” the Prophet continued. “It will be fleeting, though, if Molag Bal has his way…”

       Despite his blindness, he began moving immediately toward the door opposite where they had come in.

       “Thank the Divines, you are safe!” he said, gripping Azaryne’s arm. “There is that, at least. Lyris sacrificed everything that we may go through. Her sacrifice must not be in vain. Quickly now, we must make haste to the Anchor!”

       “Anchor?” Azaryne asked, pulling the Prophet toward the door’s center and opening it.

       “Daedric machines of the darkest magic. Their chains bind our world and pull it toward Coldharbour. I can use one of these Anchors to return us to Tamriel, but you must lead us to it. I sense it is close.”

       Azaryne nodded, but realizing quickly that the old man could not see him, hummed his agreement.

       It was not long before they entered a room so wide and open that it felt as if they had stepped back outside. Before them was a deep ravine, and at the top of the room was a giant ring of thick ebon metal, chained to the ground at five points around them.

       “The Anchor…” Azaryne muttered.

       “Yes.” the Prophet confirmed. “The Dark Anchor’s portal is high above us. I will prepare a spell to lift us to it. But first, you must re-attune yourself to Nirn in order to regain your physical form. To do this, you will need a skyshard.”

       “A skyshard?” Azaryne repeated.

       “A shard of Aetherial magicka that carries the essence of Nirn.” he said, pulling away from Azaryne and taking a few steps forward.

       “Some link them to Lorkhan, the missing god of Creation.” he continued. “If you collect and absorb its power, it should restore your corporeal form. I will summon one of these shards for you to absorb. Are you ready?”

       “I’m ready.” Azaryne said.

       With that, the Prophet raised his hands and conjured a carved wooden staff. He twirled the end in the air and brought it slamming down to the ground.

       “Shard of Aetherius, fall upon us now and anoint us with your blessing!” he cried.

       From the anchor portal above came crashing a large gem cluster. It was so brightly shining that Azaryne had to look away. 

       “Quickly now” The Prophet urged him, raising his staff for another spell. 

       Azaryne turned back, squinting toward the light, reaching out to touch the shard before him. As he did, he was lifted by the light itself, hovering just a few inches above the ground. The light dimmed some, curving in an arc and entering his body. As it did, he felt a warmth— a presence in the emptiness inside of him. It was calm. It was peaceful. It felt like home. As the light waned, his feet came down to touch the ground, and he turned to look at the Prophet.

       However, as he did a dark shadow coalesced in the deep ravine before them, forming the shape of Molag Bal himself.

       “The mortal thinks it can defy me.” Molag Bal’s voice reverberated around them. “Futile. Soon your world will be in my chains.”

       A clattering behind them broke Azaryne’s awed focus away from the Daedric Prince’s shadow. Behind them, a necromantic minion— a giant made entirely from bones— was rising at their feet.

       He tried to pull the Prophet away, but he resisted.

       “Great Akatosh, Dragon God of Time, I require your strength!” The Prophet called. “Let the way be opened! Let these wandering souls return home! Let the will of Molag Bal be denied!”

       Just as the bone giant came to a stand, the Prophet pulled Azaryne forward toward the ravine.

       “You must jump! Quickly!” he said, leaping into the abyss.

       Azaryne blindly followed, hoping beyond hope that the Prophet’s spell would save them.

       Before long, he found that they were being cradled in the air by a sort of light. It was lifting them toward the Anchor portal.

       Up they went, over the edge of the ravine— past the shadow of Molag Bal— higher and higher toward the meeting of the chains. The portal embraced them as they met its surface, replacing Coldharbour’s icy air with a warm mist. 

       And then he was falling. 

       Falling, falling.

       Azaryne crashed upon the waves, sinking deeply into the water until he regained his bearings. He struggled for the surface, but the turbulent water overcame him. He found himself sinking deeper and deeper until everything went black.

       As he sank, the Prophet’s voice traced across his mind once more. 

  
  


_        Vestige… as I feared, we arrived in different locations. I am in a place with the smell of burning ash on a hot wind and the sounds of a distant battle. I must focus on searching for a way to repay Lyris's bold sacrifice. I cannot simply abandon her to the wrath of Molag Bal. _

_        Be wary, Vestige. Our very plane of existence is in peril. The threat of Molag Bal looms across all Tamriel, and chaos spreads in its shadow. Danger roams the land and will assume many forms. Do not let it catch you off-guard. You must find your own path. But perhaps there is a reason for the place in which you find yourself. Explore. Search for a cause to lend your hand. Join with others. The choice is yours. _

_        I sense that even now there are good people near you who face grave danger. They need your assistance should you be willing to give it. To thwart the will of Molag Bal, we must skirmish with evil wherever it rears its head… _

  
  


# 

       Before he was able to respond, he felt something against his face. 

       He was pressed to warm sand, and he clenched it in his hands as he opened his eyes.

       There was a dog— a shaggy mutt with fur that was indiscernibly either mud colored or mud covered— licking at his face. He sat up, wrenching himself away until his vision came into focus. 

       The dog looked at him curiously, sniffing at his torn clothes. 

       Azaryne put a hand to the mutt’s head. 

       “I think…” He said deliriously, “I’ll call you… Blackjack.”


	3. Survival

 

        “What do you think this is about?”

        D’tannen did not turn to meet Barrig’s whisper as they walked down the corridor. 

        The way the Nord’s tongue flicked out over his split lips was telling, as was the cold sweat beading his brow. He had seen the Nord do so often over the past months, especially as he slept and nightmares robbed him of all defenses. Like a twig snapped in the underbrush, D’tannen had locked onto the boy’s giveaway as only a predator could. 

        Barrig drew a breath, then reached out a trembling hand.

        “D’tannen-”

        “Be silent.” D’tannen snapped. 

        Barrig’s hand shot back down to his side. D’tannen then looked ahead as they walked by a fellow cultist. The poor fool at his side could only hang his head when they passed, and as the sound of the cultist’s footsteps receded behind them, the sound of Barrig’s sharp breaths quickly replaced them. The sounds, the cacophony of the boy’s mounting terror grew soft and rhythmic in D’tannen’s ears, the tapping of ritual cymbals. 

 

        “This is it,” the nord whispered, then swallowed, “The ceremony where I become a vampire...isn’t it?”

 

        He thought about telling the truth.

        “Most likely.” he lied instead.

        Barrig’s heartbeat picked up to a dull roar in the vampire’s senses. He could almost taste the red pumping inside. D’tannen knew this would be all the motivation he’d need as they reached the doors at the end of the corridor. 

        Familiar runes lit up the cold stones of the doors as they parted before them. As they entered the ritual room, Barrig couldn’t help but jump when the heavy doors snapped shut behind him and echoed through the chamber. D’tannen’s focus was upon the welcome committee seated at the far end, and in particular, on the half moon smile of the high elf standing before them, his fingers caged together.

        When D’tannen came to a stop at the center of the stone floor, Barrig nearly kept walking right into his back. 

        He took note of his surroundings. No weapon racks against the walls. No clubs or whips on the belts of the other cultists in the room. No pedestal or tools indicative of sacrifice. 

        Just one small knife, like a dull, crooked tooth dangling from the belt of Malacus. 

        “I-is this how they did you, D’tannen?” Barrig’s voice was a mere breath, but D’tannen knew full well it hadn’t been lost on the ears of their high elf master. Malacus only smiled. 

        “Victory, my brother.” 

        D’tannen and Barrig both bowed their heads, “No quarter, my master.” they murmured in unison. 

        “No quarter...” Malacus echoed the words even as they spoke them, seeming to ponder their sweetness on his tongue, “And what a lovely day for victory, is it not?”

        Barrig bobbed his head. D’tannen was still.

        “You have trained for this day, survived for it.” Malacus said and D’tannen could feel the heat of his master’s gaze upon him, “...killed for it.”

        Malacus retrieved the knife from his belt and tossed it towards them. It clattered across the stones before coming to a stop a few feet shy of them. D’tannen’s eyes darted from the knife up into the expectant eyes of his master.    
  
        “Begin.” Malacus said.

        “Begin what?” Barrig managed and in the time it took him to speak, D’tannen had lunged forward and plucked the knife from the floor.    
  
        D’tannen watched the realization sweep Barrig through. The boy’s eyes widened.    
  
        “W-wait.” Barrig stuttered, “D’tannen, please.”   
  
        D’tannen silently stepped a circle around the trembling Nord, looking for an opening.    
  
        “We’re friends!” Barrig whispered, “You can’t.”

        D’tannen’s eyes flickered, “Watch.”

        Hunger fueled his speed as he shot towards Barrig. Barrig caught D’tannen’s hands and cried out. They pressed and strained for control of the knife. 

        D’tannen grunted and slammed his head into Barrig’s, stunning the Nord and sending him stumbling back. D’tannen slashed forward and there was the sound of Barrig’s shirt tearing against the sharpened edge followed by a yelp.   
  
        Barrig launched forward with a scream. The momentum sent them both to the floor.

        Barrig, with his hand around D’tannen’s wrist, slammed it down into the floor until his grip on the knife loosened and the weapon was sent flying.    
  
        D’tannen hissed, his rage renewed. They rolled until D’tannen was sitting on Barrig’s chest, pinning him down with his superior vampiric strength. D’tannen watched as Barrig struggled in vain against his own weight. He met the teary eyes, wide with terror for only a second before leaning down, teeth bared. 

        All at once he dug his teeth deep into Barrig’s throat, cutting into his jugular and clamping down, strangling the gurgling scream. He pulled back, spilling thick waves of blood over his chest and face. 

        D’tannen spat the flesh from his teeth, letting the rage simmer down inside of him.

        The elder cultists filtered out of the room one by one as D’tannen sat over the cooling corpse of his former comrade until only Malacus remained.

        He  stood, wiping the blood from his face, smearing the white grease skull from his nose, mouth and chin. Malacus approached him warmly, his shoulders thrown back with pride.

        “I have trained you well.” he said proudly, gripping D’tannen’s shoulders firmly. 

        “Your prize…” he said, leaning in closely, “Is a mission. A mission for our great lord and master himself: Molag Bal.”

        D’tannen swallowed. 

        “Do you understand what this means, D’tannen? If you succeed you will no longer be my protege. You will be moving up in the world… your own man.” 

        “What is this mission, master?” D’tannen replied. 

        “There is a Soul Shriven who has escaped Coldharbour-- been reattuned to Nirn. Our dark lord does not like this. Slaves are not meant to escape. Bring him back, permanently, and your reward will be great.”

        D’tannen nodded. 

 

        “Because I favor you, D’tannen, I will give you some advice. This target is not mortal or immortal. They are a wisp. A ghost of themselves. You will need more than just your killing instincts. Seek out The Animancer in Daggerfall. They can help you.”

        D’tannen nodded firmly. 

        “I understand, master.” he murmured. He turned to walk away, but Malacus caught him by the arm. 

        “Oh, D’tannen…” He said languidly, breathing against D’tannen’s ear. “I need not tell you this is not a mission where mistakes will be tolerated. See to it that you don’t screw this up.”

        He released D’tannen’s arm and stepped away in a single motion, leaving him standing in the center of the room as the weight of his next task settled in his mind.


	4. Lost and Found

        Davon’s Watch was a small town. Too far north, Irvane might say, and the dry ashen heat of the volcanoes was no substitute for the marshy wilds of Shadowfen. Still, it was one of few places one could find mudcrab chitin and scrib jelly in such abundance, and so as she had been taught, she made the most of the foreign land. 

        “Foreign” still felt like an odd word to describe Stonefalls. For all intents and purposes, she looked the part of a native. Her body language, however, always gave her away no matter how many times she visited. She did not wear the proud squared shoulders of a House elf, or the wild grace of the Ashlanders. She carried herself differently, and for that, was always easily picked out on the streets of Davon’s Watch by locals and travellers alike.

        On her way past the local alchemist, Irvane stopped. She shifted her bag from her shoulder to her hip, opening the top to count fresh herbs and flora. A pouch full of coprinus caps might well trade for another two jars of jelly, but that would be useless without ground chitin in kind. 

        She tisked to herself in thought, her thin lips pursing tightly.

        “Scale-lover!” a nearby dark elf merchant shouted. She bristled at the words but did not acknowledge him. 

        “Get out of the way,  you’re blocking my stall.”   

        “Isn’t my gold the same color as yours?” She shot back. “Not that your wares are worth it.” 

        She watched as the mer’s face flushed deeply and his teeth grit. 

        Just then, Irvane noticed a gray hand reaching over the edge of the merchant’s stall. It wasted no time, and instead grabbed onto the nearest loaf of bread and disappeared. 

        Within an instant, the merchant had followed her eyes and slapped the loaf down. 

        “Guards!” He shouted, grabbing the offender by the wrist tightly. 

        There was the low growl of a dog from the side, and Irvane turned to see a scruffy looking mutt with it’s hackles up at the merchant. 

        When the guard arrived, the merchant thrust the thief in the woman’s direction. 

        “This one tried to steal a loaf of bread. We need to clean up our town of these begging filth. It’s your duty as a guard to keep riffraff like this off the streets!”

        Irvane, however, cleared her throat, and in her best impression of the merchant’s wealthy affectation, she replied. 

        “I saw him pay. It was the poor mer’s only drake too. Don’t tell me you’re going to lock him up on appearance alone?” 

        The merchant gaped at her. 

        “Don’t listen to that lizard-smelling piece of filth! I want him clapped in irons. Now!”

        The guard, however, simply took the loaf of bread, handed it to the thief and turned to the merchant. 

        “The Pact has been formed for 12 years now, Nyraelo. I suggest you stop worrying about who associates with whom before you run yourself out of Davon’s Watch.”

        And with that, the guard turned on her heel and continued her patrol. 

        Irvane cast one last look at the seething merchant, raising her eyebrows and giving a vague shrug in response to his glare before turning and making her way down the stalls. 

        It did not take her long to notice, however, that she was still being followed. Not by the merchant, but by the young man and his dog. 

        She turned around somewhat aggressively and looked him over. 

        He looked young for a dunmer, no older than 30.  Tattoos covered most of his visible body. The tattered rags he wore were clearly something that had gone for years with no care, yet there was no sign of them having been outgrown. The dog at his heels was not nearly as dirty as he was, but seemed to follow him loyally if not protectively. 

        He looked startled as she turned, but that barely softened her voice as she snapped at him. 

        “Why are you following me?”

        He grinned nervously, putting his hands and the loaf of stolen bread back up in surrender.

        “We’re just on the same path.” he said quietly. “I may be a thief but I’m not after your gold. If anything, I wanted to thank you… you didn’t have to lie for me.”

        “It was hardly for you.” Irvane said with a sigh. 

        The dog at his feet came forward and sniffed her interestedly. 

        “Keep your dog away from me and we’ll be square.” 

        The young man nodded before giving a brief whistle.

        “C’mere Blackjack.” he said, and the dog returned to his side automatically. 

        With a final wave, the thief made his way to a nearby crate to sit and eat his bread in peace. 

        Irvane watched him for a moment, cursing herself for her interest as he broke off a piece of the loaf and shared it with his dog. With a heavy sigh, however, she found herself walking toward his place and sitting down on the crate beside him. 

        “What’s your story, kid?” She said bitterly. 

        The thief turned and blinked. 

        “My story?” he laughed. 

        “How did you arrive in Davon’s Watch. Were you born here? Shipwreck?”

        “Would you believe me if I told you?” he asked quietly.

        Irvane rolled her eyes.

        “I’ll tell you what,” she said, “If your story surprises me that much, I’ll get you some new clothes and take you as far as Mournhold for work. I give you my word.” 

        The boy sighed heavily in response, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure if he was going to even humor her. However, it wasn’t long into his story before she began to feel hustled. It may not have had a clear beginning, but despite what he explained as a lack of memory, he spoke with conviction on the larger points. 

        A stolen soul, Daedric slavery… Years of torture. Rescue by a prophet and a warrior claiming the elder scrolls themselves had spoken of him. If he hadn’t been staring at her so seriously with those evaluating red eyes, she would have burst into dismissive laughter.

        “And you fell from the sky.” She repeated. 

        “From a type of portal. An anchor I think.”

        “You fell from an… anchor.”

        “And crashed into the ocean. I’m not sure if I drowned… But I woke up on the beach.”

        “Well you obviously didn’t drown…”

        “Oh… right. Er…” the thief scratched his head for a moment. 

        “I can’t exactly die, I don’t think. I mean. I die, but I just come back. Something about the whole soulshriven thing… It’s... complicated.”

        Irvane let a moment of silence sit between them as she contemplated what kind of severe blow to the head her companion had endured. 

        “Well, I suppose I owe you some new clothes.” She muttered under her breath. She stood and brushed off her robes, pulling a walking stick from the strap of her pack and steadying herself upright. “What’s your name?”

        “Azaryne.” he said, standing up as well. 

        “Well, Azaryne. I hope you’re prepared for a long journey.”

⁂

        It didn’t take long in the shops of Davon’s Watch to find a decent pair of pre-made travelling shoes or to tailor a tunic and trousers. 

        Irvane watched as Azaryne walked with new confidence out of the tailor’s shop and back into the streets. Even his shaggy mutt seemed happier. She supposed that regardless of the accuracy of his story, his old clothes certainly needed to go. Whether they had been literally worn for years or not, they looked the part, and were caked in ash and dirt so heavily that she doubted they could be scrubbed clean. She had seen slaves come to her cleaner. 

        It was for this reason alone that she decided they would stay the night in an inn. Even if it would mean they were a little short-supplied for their journey to Mournhold, a bath was necessary. 

        Luckily enough, having arrived at the off-season for harboring ships, there were plenty of inexpensive beds and complementary dinner. To her dismay, the dog was also allowed into their room so long as the two took full responsibility for any damaged property. 

        If there was to be any conversation that night, it was drowned in the rabbit millet stew. When two hearty bowls and mugs of shein were dropped in front of them, Azaryne’s eyes almost doubled in size. He had finished his second bowl before Irvane had finished her first, and she had to stop him at a third or she was sure he would eat himself sick. 

        As much as she wanted a second mug of shein, Irvane instead shepherded the boy up the stairs and called for hot water to be brought to the washtub. 

        When he had disappeared behind the dividers, she sat on her rented bed and stared at the mutt sitting before her. 

_ What are you looking at?   _ She thought. 

        It let out a low bark, as though in response. She continued to stare, deadpan, at the dog until finally it curled up at her feet. 

        It was some time before Azaryne emerged from behind the dividers, but when he did, he was barely recognisable. 

        His ink black hair had been drawn half up, and he was in the process of plaiting a small braid behind each ear. 

        Now that the ash had been scrubbed from his warm gray skin, she could see the intricacy of his tattoos which laced over his arms and chest. They were House dunmer in origin, clearly, and bore the mark of the Redoran scarab. 

        So, he was a warrior, she thought as he pulled his head through his tunic and flopped down onto his bed. Perhaps he had injured his head in some battle. 

        “Azaryne.” She started, quietly. “What is the last thing you can remember?” 

        “Coldharbour.” He said immediately. “A foundry.” 

        Irvane held back a sigh before trying again in her most patient voice. 

        “What about before that? Do you remember a family? A home? Anything?”

         There was a brief moment in which Azaryne seemed to consider this. 

        “No.” He replied finally. He shifted onto his stomach, crossing his arms to prop up his chin on his pillow. “Even if I did, it could have been years since I’d seen them… how would I know them? What if they wouldn’t know me?”

        Irvane’s brow furrowed, her mouth softening as she chose her words. 

        “Family will always know you.” She said. “No matter how long it’s been.”

        This seemed to please him somewhat, so with that, Irvane snuffed out the bedside candle and lay down for sleep. 


	5. Like Moths

        The next morning, the two headed out from the inn at dawn. Irvane paid their small tab and, after purchasing a few extra travel rations, they made for the arching walls of Davon’s Watch. 

        Irvane had cast some sort of spell over her pack, causing it to appear to Az and anyone else that it was full of books and not bursting to the seams with valuable alchemical reagents. She explained to him that bandit camps were thick in the span between Davon’s Watch and Mournhold. It was better to travel with as little as possible-- especially when it came to gold and wares-- than to appear to be a rich target passing through unprotected. 

        By their second day west through the volcanic stonelands, Irvane had taken to asking Azaryne questions. Many of these, he had no good answer for, he found, but others seemed to trigger vague shadows in his mind. It was an unsettling feeling, but he appreciated the conversation nonetheless.

        “How old are you?” Irvane prompted, clacking her walking stick against the stone road. 

        “I’m not sure.” Az replied, following closely behind her. “How old do I look?”

        She stopped and turned around, looking him over. He felt his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, so he put them onto his hips instead. 

        “25?” She guessed. “30, maybe.” 

        “Huh. Alright then.” 

        They took back to the road again, the sun beginning to set over the black and red mountains in the distance. 

        “That’s pretty young to die.” Az mused. 

        Irvane scoffed. “Practically a child...” 

        Azaryne pondered this. 

        “How old are  _ you _ ?” he asked her.

        Irvane scowled. 

        “That’s impolite.” 

        “Well, you asked me!”

        She put a hand to her forehead and rubbed her brow. 

        “Fine.” she said after a moment. “96.”

        “That’s not so old.”

        “What is that supposed to mean?”

        “Nothing!” Az said, putting his hands up. “I just figured from the way you were offended you’d be a lot older.” 

        Irvane sighed audibly. 

        They passed a merging road from a western town as they headed south, noting another traveller on the path heading opposite them. A merchant, perhaps, Az thought.

         However, the traveller turned south at the pass, just as they had, whereas the nearest town was east, and his speed was closing the gap between them quickly. 

        They were being followed. 

        Irvane picked up her pace as well, and Azaryne followed suit. The traveller, however, continued to close in on them. Azaryne found himself looking over his shoulder more frequently than he knew he should. The man behind them was a pale dunmer wearing black leather armor, daggers at his side and a staff in his hand. His hair was shaved on both sides and drawn up into a wolf’s tail. He walked with a purpose, carrying himself with a sort of glowering menace that rang through every breath and every movement. 

        When he finally was within shouting distance, he beckoned. 

        “Hey!” He called. 

        Irvane bristled but did not turn. 

        “Hey, stop!” 

        But they did not. Irvane seemed to be pretending she couldn’t hear him. Azaryne turned back enough to notice the expression on the mer becoming distinctly more irritated. 

        He started at a sprint, catching up to them easily and getting in front of them. 

        “ _ Oblivion take you _ — just  _ wait _ for a second!”

        Irvane finally stopped, clapping her walking stick down on the ground in front of her and squaring her shoulders to match his stance. 

        “Alright. You have my attention. What do you want?”

        The black armored mer rolled his eyes dramatically before putting a hand to his brow and sighing. 

        “Look, I noticed we were on the same path.” he huffed.

        “Sure.”

        “And I’m trained in combat— sword for hire.”

        “Right.”

        “So I thought, this way being so full of bandits, you might—”

        “Fund your next bar visit?”

        “Need my help.” He snapped.

        Azaryne looked between the two, entirely uncertain on who would break the tense silence first. The two were matched in intimidating presence, Irvane’s pointed apathy for the mer’s terse staccato. 

        “Look,” Irvane said finally, “we aren’t interested in your assistance. We know these roads. And unless this is some sort of setup where your friends are set to jump us down the road…”

        “No!” The mer interjected. “Nothing like that.” 

        He stopped. 

        “Let’s start over.” He said. “I’m D’tannen.”

        “And I’m leaving.” Irvane said, walking around him. Azaryne followed at her heels, keeping his head low and his eyes forward. D’tannen, however, reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. 

        “Hey!” he said. “What about you? Don’t you speak for yourself?”

        Az pulled himself away, turned and shrugged. 

        “We don’t want any trouble…” Az started, but Irvane had turned back around, her walking stick brandished toward D’tannen’s throat.

        “If you truly mean us no harm, you will walk away now. Go back to town. Find someone else who requires your services. Move. On.”

        D’tannen grumbled something under his breath, but took two steps back. 

        “Fine. I get it.” he huffed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Safe travels…”

        Azaryne could detect a hint of sarcasm in the other mer’s voice, but he remained silent. Irvane had settled into an angry quiet as well, and the two passed the next several miles without a word. 

        As they continued on, the harsh black stone gave way to towering mushrooms, trees and thick grass. When they finally reached the border to Deshaan, they strayed from the road and made camp for the night. Irvane unrolled a reed mat onto the ground and helped Azaryne gather together a bed of large leaves to lay on. They built a fire to ward off both animals and the night’s chill, and with that they settled in. 

         Half of their journey passed this way: each night heading away from the roads and camping down, and each morning kicking dirt into the dying embers of their fire and heading out. It was week’s end before they had come across another traveller— an Argonian courier, who flagged them down.

        “Born-of-Ash…” the Argonian man said, handing over a scroll of parchment to Irvane. “I have a message for you.”

        “Born-of-Ash?” Azaryne whispered.

        “Later.” Irvane waved him off.

        “It is lucky we crossed paths.” The courier croaked. “I had feared I may have to travel to Davon’s Watch before I met up with you. It is too urgent.”

        Irvane opened the scroll, eyes darting over the black inked text. 

        Azaryne did not attempt to read, but instead watched her expression resolve. When the courier had wished them well and left, Irvane turned to Azaryne.

        “I’m sorry.” She said. 

        “What’s wrong?” Azaryne asked.

        “I promised to take you to Mournhold, but there are complications…”

        For the first time since they had met, Azaryne saw fear in Irvane’s eyes. 

        “My little brother is missing.” She said finally.

        “Your brother?” Az repeated, but Irvane spoke again.

        “If you catch up with the courier, he can lead you to Mournhold. Just stay close, keep your eyes  _ open—” _

        “Irvane— stop.” Az interrupted. “You’ve helped me so much, let me help you.”

        She looked him in the eyes for a moment, her hands fiddling with her staff as she made her decision. 

        “Fine.” She said. 

        “We should make it to Shadowfen by the end of the day. If only we had a horse… Two days to Xkalz'r at most on foot. Stay close. Don’t ask too many questions.”

        Azaryne nodded, keeping his mouth shut. There were many things he wanted to say to attempt to give her comfort, but given Irvane’s state, he thought silence the better option. Though he had no memory of a family, he found a profound empathy, and his heart grew heavy in his chest.

        To lose a brother… to have a brother. A younger brother. 

        He imagined that he would give anything to keep him safe. 


	6. Jailbreak

        Making quick pace, they reached Xkalz'r just before noon the second day. It was an Argonian village, small and quiet. Houses of wood and sunbaked mud stood tall and proud in the midday light. As soon as they reached the outskirts, Irvane instantly began to sprint. 

        “Born-of-Ash!” an old Argonian woman called when they reached the village center. Out of breath, Irvane stood up and looked her in the eye. 

        “Where is he, mother?”

        Azaryne tried his best to keep from looking between the two of them with too much confusion. 

        “He and some friends, Hist preserve them, wandered into that old Daedric ruin to the East. One of them returned, said they had been looking for ritual objects to sell for coin, and you know how Drawn-to-Flame has always been impulsive…”   
  
        “Don’t worry, mother.” Irvane said, clasping a hand to her shoulder. “We’ll get them out.”

        “Oh, please be careful…” The old woman muttered softly. “I can’t lose you both.”

 

        Blackjack whined lowly when Azaryne told him to stay as they approached the ruin. Red daedric runes lined the entryway, closed by large ebon doors. The magic that inhabited it left a chill in the air. This ruin was hardly dormant. 

        Azaryne pressed his palm to the side of the door and it creaked open. Azaryne and Irvane both hesitantly peered around it. There were no cultists visible this close to the exit, but voices resounded from deeper in, and they were sure to have disturbed them.

        Wishing he had a weapon, Azaryne crept along the inside wall through the shadows and into an alcove on the other side of the empty entryway. Irvane drew her staff and followed, the door closing behind them automatically.

        “So,” Azaryne whispered. “Who exactly are we looking for?”

        Irvane scowled at him. 

        “I just mean— a dunmer or an argonian?” he clarified.

        “An argonian.” She sighed. “And if we get him out and safe, I will explain anything you want to know.”

        Before they found cultists, they started finding bodies; on the floor, on altars, along the walls… They were fresh enough in form, but cold enough to know their slayers remained elsewhere. 

        Azaryne found a sword on the corpse of one victim, and pulled it free. Now, at least, he could fight should it come to that. 

        Down the hallway, Az could see a dim purple glow. He leaned out to get a better look, when suddenly something hit him from behind. 

        He cried out as jolting pain shot through his back and he whirled around to face his assailant. 

        They had been spotted. 

        Three cultists were at the end of the hall opposite them, one drawing back their lightning staff and preparing another charge. 

        Irvane turned as well, wielding her staff over her head and bringing it’s end squarely down into the side of the mage’s head. Dizzied, his magic dissipated and discharged along the floor, but the second cultist drew back a club and the third was preparing a sword. 

        Azaryne readied his own weapon, lunging forward to finish off the caster while Irvane turned her attention toward the club-wielding cultist. 

        They were swing for swing, Irvane backing away from the cultist’s heavy blows, and the cultist dodging bolts of light from Irvane’s staff. 

        Azaryne pushed the felled mage off of his blade and turned to swing for Irvane’s opponent. However, he had lost sight of the third. 

        His chest tightened as he caught sight of the third cultist once again, readying their sword to strike Irvane.

        He shouted something too late as the thrust came up into her side and she dropped her staff, leaving the second cultist free to strike her across the chest. 

        Angered, Azaryne whipped back his sword and sliced up and into the mace-wielding cultist’s back, cleaving through her spine and rendering her prone on the floor. 

        He drew his blade up once more and thrust directly through the ribcage of the third and final cultist who sputtered, coughing blood onto his face and hands. 

        When the third had fallen, he rushed to Irvane, who was on the floor, clutching her side. As he knelt beside her, he noticed a fourth figure coming toward them as well, and reached for his blade again. However, this figure was unarmed, and argonian. 

        “Ash!” the newcomer cried, rushing toward them.

        “Drawn-to-Flame…” Irvane muttered, sitting up slightly with a wince. 

        “Irvane, are you alright?” Azaryne asked, trying to move her hand to see to the wound. 

        She was bleeding badly, but still had the strength to slap his hand away.

        “I’ll be fine.” She said weakly. “I’m a healer. I can tend to myself. Just get him out of here.”

        “Fat chance.” Az said. “You’re both coming. We can carry you out.” 

        “No.” said Drawn-to-Flame quietly. 

        Irvane and Azaryne both looked to him, Azaryne’s eyebrow quirked. 

        “Why not?” Irvane demanded.

        “My friends, they…” he started, looking away and swallowing hard. “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have run. They were taken.”

        “Are they alive?” Azaryne asked.

        “No…” Drawn-to-Flame answered. “But they… their souls… they were stuffed into these rocks.”

        Azaryne’s heart skipped a beat. 

        “I can still hear them… screaming… They’re suffering, I’m sure of it. I have to help them. I think if I break those rocks...”

        Irvane was now pulling herself up by Drawn-to-Flame’s shoulder. 

        “We can’t worry about that. We need to get out of here. Now.”

        “You two go.” Azaryne muttered.

        “What?” Irvane asked incredulously. “This is ridiculous! We’re not leaving either of you—”

        “You heard me.” Az said, holding up his hands. “Look, I told you— I’m dead. They have my soul. There’s nothing more they can take from me… but if I can save another from what I had to go through, I will.”

        Before Irvane had time to speak or Drawn-to-Flame had time to question, Azaryne hoisted Irvane up around her waist and helped her steady herself against her brother.

        “Get out of here, both of you.” He said, leaving no room for further discussion. “I’ll see you when your friends are freed.”

 

        Azaryne stubbornly watched them round the corner and out of sight before turning and heading deeper into the ruin.  

        It was chilling, being surrounded by Daedric architecture again. Now that he was alone, his nerves were beginning to get to him. Between the dark ebon walls and glowing red runes, his thoughts were racing. He was back in Coldharbour again, hiding from the Dremora and their Clannfears... 

        Regardless, he was glad that at least Irvane and her brother were safe, and Irvane would be able to get assistance.

        He readied his sword as he neared the next corner of the winding ruin halls. The purple glow was growing stronger, but there were no voices to be heard. 

        He rounded the corner as quickly as he could, taking in the room and raising his sword. 

        In the center of the room was a Dremora, bound by magical chains and hovering above a Daedric platform. She chuckled as he scanned the room. 

        “No, they aren’t here.” said the Dremora. “You’re safe for the moment, little mortal.”

        Azaryne held his sword tightly at his side as he stepped toward the Daedric platform. 

        “What are you doing here?” he asked. 

        “Oh, I allowed them to pull me from Oblivion, bind my essence and siphon my power because it seemed entertaining.” She sneered. 

        Azaryne rolled his eyes and stepped away from the platform, heading toward the door on the other side of the room. 

        “However,” She spoke up from behind him, “You are the one best able to help me dance upon my captors’ innards, aren’t you? What say we make ourselves a deal.”

        “I don’t deal with Daedra.” he said, not turning. 

        “Do so, and I’ll reveal where they’re keeping the souls you’re looking for.”

        He stopped. 

        “I’ll even grant you passage there and back safely. All you need to do is... a little favor.”

        He turned to her, keeping his weapon close. 

        “What do you want?” Azaryne asked carefully.

        “These altars, on either side of the room. They bind me here. Destroy the sigils at the center and I pledge to escort you directly to the soul gems you seek. Also, I pledge not to violate your corpse on your burial day. A true bargain!”

        “A little late for that one.” Az muttered darkly.

        “You might think so. Just consider, my sumptuous little morsel. Break my bonds and I’ll give you what you desire… perhaps more. Or don’t, and let your self-righteous pride doom your friends.”

        Azaryne turned on his heel and made for the door, watching the purple light grow fainter as he walked. As he headed down the hall, he heard the Dremora’s voice laugh once more. 

        “You’ll regret this one day, mortal.” She called. “Oh, mortals do love pretending that they have a choice.”

 

        Between the winding underground hallways and sneaking past cultists and Daedra alike in the larger rooms, it felt like hours had passed before he finally spotted it: A large, wide pedestal with six soul gems evenly spaced upon it. 

        He glanced to his left, then to his right. The room seemed empty, but he remained suspicious. Voices could still be heard from somewhere nearby. 

        He moved quickly and quietly over to the pedestal. Each gem sparkled with a light deep within. He would need to find a way to get them out. Perhaps if he broke them?

        It was worth a shot.

        He put a hand over the first gem, feeling the strange vibrating whisper of the soul inside. Az set down his sword and picked up the gem experimentally. 

        He turned and looked over his shoulder, but upon seeing nothing, he turned back to the gem.

        “Well.” he muttered to himself. “Here goes nothing.”

        He raised it up over his head and brought it crashing down into the side of the pedestal. The gem in his hand cracked and split down the middle with the sound of breaking glass, and a wisp of light rose like smoke from the center.

        He watched it, fascinated, as it rose and disappeared, but no sooner than it vanished, the sound of footsteps approached. 

        Of course, he thought, he had been heard. 

        He scrambled to the other gems, picking them each up and into his arms, hoping he might be able to hide, but as he turned and looked behind him, he saw that they had already rounded the corner. 

        At least a dozen cultists and several lesser daedra rushed into the room. Each were armed. Each were angry. And each were ready to fight. 

        He threw the second gem down and backed up slowly. It cracked only slightly, but just enough to let the spirit free. 

        He was utterly outnumbered. He had to work quickly. The cultists were closing in on him, and swiftly. His weapon was far from him, on the other side of the pedestal. There was no way he would reach it in time.  

        He smashed the next gem, throwing it to the floor as aggressively as possible. He turned toward the wall and ran as fast as he could, throwing soul gems as he sprinted. 

        The fourth and fifth gem shattered upon impact with the ground, releasing more glowing wisps of light. 

        He had reached the back wall. There was nowhere left to run. The cultists were upon him now and his heart hammered in his chest. 

        One cultist looked at him, his glare a threat as he charged his weapon. 

        Azaryne threw the last gem to the ground in defiance, looking the cultist dead in the eye. 

        It cracked and the final spirit was released into the air. Despite the knowledge that he wouldn’t escape, he looked on in grim satisfaction. Whatever they planned to do with him, he had accomplished his task. 

        One cultist grabbed him roughly by the arm while a second drew a blade. His throat was slit from behind as a dagger was thrust through his gut. 

        Searing pain gripped him as they dropped him to the floor.

        His vision dimmed as he watched their boots turn and move away. 

        Drawn-to-Flame’s friends were safe. That was all that mattered.

        When his sight finally blackened, he found himself still conscious. There was no longer the pain, or the feeling of the cold stone floor beneath him. There was nothing at all. 

        Despite the blackness, he felt as if his eyes were open, his body floating in a void of thought. He wondered if he might stay like this, in this abyssal quiet forever, but before long, he felt it.

        Like a tug at his center, he felt it. Coldharbour’s call. Fear leapt in his heart as he felt himself being pulled in its direction. He could feel its icy air tingling down his neck, chilling his spine and his very bones. 

        No. 

        No, no, no.

        After all he had done to escape? After the help he received? Lyris— the Prophet— did none of it matter? 

        The skyshard, he thought. How it filled him with light and a feeling of peace. 

        And then, he felt it again. A second force pulling at his being. Warmth, the fresh smell of grass and the feeling of sunlight on his face. He could hear the birds chirruping, see the vast trees and mushrooms. He could feel it. 

        It tore at him, wrenching him from side to side. The cold and the light, each making a claim. Coldharbour and Nirn both tugging at him, attempting to pull him to their realm. 

        He fought it, pulling his mind as though physically swimming through the blackness toward the light. It struggled against him like tendrils of darkness, pulling his very essence further into the cold.

        He wanted to see Nirn again. To see Tamriel again. To see the sun and the grass and the moons. 

        He would not go back to Coldharbour no matter how hard it fought him. He would not. He refused. 

        He reached forward with all his strength, as though his fingertips were mere inches away from the prized light before him— and all at once— he was gone. 

 

⁂

 

        Azaryne opened his eyes to day breaking over the mud huts of Xkalz'r. Somehow, he had made it to a shrine in the center of town. It was nice, Azaryne thought, with its mossy carvings glinting in the morning sun. 

        Near the well, he saw an argonian man with feathered spikes, but his vision was still coming in and out of focus. He blinked to try to clear it. 

        Drawn-to-Flame.

        He watched as the man rushed to his side immediately. 

        “Friend, I thought you were lost for good.” Drawn-to-Flame rasped. “How on Nirn did you survive?”

        “I didn’t.” Azaryne said shakily. He sat up with Drawn-to-Flame’s assistance, still finding his strength. 

        “One day,” the argonian man started, “You’ll have to tell me what you mean by that. But for now, let’s get you inside.”

 

        After a brief meal and a few hours rest, Azaryne felt markedly better. Drawn-to-Flame had left him alone at his house to go check on Irvane, and Az decided that he would soon follow. 

        When he reached her house, he opened the door quietly. He felt somewhat guilty as he walked through her house uninvited. Once he reached what he assumed was the bedroom, he opened the door.

        Irvane sat on a bed, her wound bandaged tightly and her mother and brothers at her side. As he approached, she waved them off and they silently left. When the door clicked shut behind them, she spoke. 

        “I promised an explanation.”

        “Irvane, it’s okay.”

        “No. You will listen. If only because I know that you won’t judge.”

        He couldn’t argue, so instead he sat down in the chair opposite her bed, rest his elbows on his knees and waited.

        “I was found in an ashlander village” she started, staring resolutely at the blankets over her legs. “by a group of runaway slaves. I was just a baby, so they refused to leave me. It was an act of mercy that I will never understand… I was given the name ‘Born-of-Ash’ for the ruined village I was found in, and was raised alongside my brothers— Drawn-to-Flame and Paints-with-Soot. I earned my keep when I could. I learned alchemy, magic. I’ve become something of the town healer.”

        She looked away now, but still did not face him, instead looking out the window at her side. 

        “The dunmer… do not tend to understand me, but that’s fine by me. I don’t understand them either. Their destruction. Their pride. It’s better this way.”

        “I don’t see what there is to judge.” Azaryne said, sitting back up. “It sounds like you were taken in by a loving family, and you love them back. That’s what matters, right?” 

        Irvane smiled.

        “I suppose you’re right.”

 

        Azaryne stayed in town the next few days while Irvane recovered, treated something like an honored guest rather than a tagalong ragamuffin picked up from the streets. When he could no longer stand Drawn-to-Flame and his mother’s gratitude, he slipped out into the streets to find Irvane. 

        He found her lifting water from the well not far from the little house. 

        “Here, let me take that.” He offered, extending a hand.

        “I can carry it myself.” Irvane said curtly. 

        “I was thinking it’s about time for me to be leaving.” Azaryne said. “So, if you could loan me a map, I’d be appreciative.”

        Irvane shook her head.

        “I’m healing well. I should be road-ready in a few days.”

        “You really should stay and rest.” Az protested.

        “I made a promise.” Irvane said, pointing a finger directly at his nose. “I’m good on my word. I’ll take you to Mournhold. Just give me a few more days.”

        Azaryne smiled. 

        “Alright.”


	7. Mournhold

        With Irvane’s condition, they took their time heading to Mournhold. She had to rest periodically, and take potions every few hours, but within a few days they reached their destination.

        Out in the wilds, their frugal supplies had been something of an obstacle. However, as they entered the city, Azaryne found himself thankful that they carried so little. Their meager supplies allowed them to be shepherded into the shortest of several long lines by the gold-armored Ordinators of the city.

        The city itself was bustling. Between the seemingly endless line that wrapped around the registrar building, and the flocks of people shuffling in and out of the marketplace near the Tribunal Temple, Azaryne was amazed that no one had simply slipped into the crowds and wandered off. 

        Around midday, it had started to rain, and the already annoyed crowds grew all the more vocal. It wasn’t difficult to overhear conversations from the neighboring lines in which merchants complained of spoiling guar steaks and dampening bolts of cloth.

        By the time they made it to the registration desks and had their bags inspected, the sun had fallen low on the horizon. After inventing his way through an exhaustive list of questions about his family and previous travels, the Ordinators finally stacked up Azaryne’s paperwork and presented him with a small brooch to allow access in and out of the city. Blackjack was begrudgingly given a livestock badge and confined to the stables overnight, and with that, Azaryne and Irvane made their way to The Flaming Nix inn. 

 

        When they were both seated with plates of hunter’s pie and mugs of shein, they were hit with the full fatigue of their day’s journey. For what time it took entering the city, Azaryne could not imagine living here. He shuddered at the thought as he made his way up the stairs and to their rented beds. 

        That night, Azaryne slept more soundly than he could remember. The soft mattress and warm blankets were a welcome change to damp earth and a dying fire. 

        Over a breakfast of apple-baked fish, he and Irvane discussed the day’s plans. Az had decided that rather than looking for static work in the city, he might travel the countryside in search of adventure. Irvane would allot him enough gold to find himself travel necessities and some armor for the road, while she negotiated prices for the potions she had brought to sell. She wrote him a list of alchemic reagents that were apparently rare in Shadowfen, and fair prices to buy them for if he happened upon any at a stall, and without any further chatter, they set out for the day. 

        Between the Tribunal Temple and the central public building were rows of tented market stalls. 

        The gold necessary for platemail was far out of his budget, but truth be told, Azaryne didn’t mind that much. He couldn’t imagine himself wandering the woods in clunky metal joints. Aside from that, cloth or leather would be easier to tailor, and Az knew that with his slender body type, he was unlikely to find ready-made armor that would do little more than hang loosely around his waist and tug uncomfortably at his hips.

        Under a painted wooden sign depicting a pair of fabric shears was the tailor’s stall. Amid the half dozen mannequins and stacked bolts and hides were two Nords-- a father and daughter, he presumed-- and a Khajiiti woman.  

        “Be with you in a moment.” the Nordic man said to him, smiling pleasantly. 

        The daughter worked deftly with practiced finesse as she flitted the measuring tape over, under, and around her client’s limbs. She smirked as her eye caught his. 

        “I’m all finished, actually.” She said, making note of the measurements on a sheaf of parchment. “Come on over here, charming.” 

        Azaryne flushed and awkwardly sidled through the shop’s counters and displays. She brusquely lifted his arms to a T at his side and began taking his measurements, albeit more slowly than he had watched her work with the Khajiit. 

        “Is this your first time in Mournhold?” She asked. 

        “Yeah.” He replied. 

        “Bit overwhelming, isn’t it.” She grinned. 

        “Yeah, a bit.” He sighed, relieved to have had someone state what he had been feeling over his brief time here.  

        “You get used to it over time.” She replied, wrapping her arms around his chest and lingering just a moment before pulling her measuring tape through for bust measurements. “How long are you staying?” 

        “What?” Az asked, his face growing pink. “OH, er. Not long, I think. Just in town for some supplies.”

        “That’s unfortunate.” she frowned, her lips drawing into a small pout. “I would have liked to have shown you around…”

        “Sorry,” Az replied, laughing absently. “I think I’ve seen enough of the city for one day.”

        She finished her work a bit more quickly, and after jotting down each measurement on a fresh page of parchment, it was time to try on some pre-made garments. 

        A khajiiti leather jack proved to be the most comfortable fit. The sleeveless design allowed him better range of his arms for archery, and he was rather fond of the crescent moon on the chest. 

        They suggested a custom tailored pair of leather pants, built with extra armoring while still light enough for easy horseback travel. 

        Bracers and legguards were a true fit, so he was able to pay for those upfront with the deposit for the morning. 

        “We’ll have these tailored up for you by midday tomorrow.” The nordic man told him, giving him a written receipt of his payment and tucking the coins away into his pouch.  

        Azaryne thanked him, and the man pointed him in the direction of a nearby smithy where he might find a bow or blade. 

        Around midday, noting that he still had to collect Irvane’s ingredients, he made his way back through the market stalls in search of an apothecary.

         One stall in particular drew his attention despite his search, however. It was a small stall filled with dwarven artifacts. A cracked centurion head sat at the fore, surrounded by a variety of brass objects that Azaryne could not even begin to understand. A miniature clockwork orb was surrounded by loose gears and levers. Thick red crystals with cracks and without lined the side edges. 

         Somewhere near the fore, however, was a small copper compass-- simple in design. If it weren't for the ancient dwarven patterned border, it might be mistaken for Breton origin. 

          Azaryne’s palms grew itchy just looking at it. His whole body tingled with desire to simply pocket it and walk away. 

The shopkeep himself seemed to be thoroughly engaged with a neighboring Argonian adventurer, discussing the ins and outs of dwemer ruins and what place might hold a particular resource. 

         He palmed it carefully, letting his fingers wrap casually around it and slow his clamoring heart.        

        “HOLD!” A nearby ordinator shouted. 

        He stopped, dropping the compass instantly.  The Ordinator, however, did not approach.

        He attempted to walk away while he still could, but before he was able, the Ordinator called out again, this time, removing her helmet. 

        Something about her was hauntingly familiar, though try as he might he could not place a name or even a context. Her black hair was drawn into an elegantly braided bun with two sticks crossing the center, and the loose locks on either side contrastingly framed her ashen features. Her bright red eyes were staring at him in disbelief.

        “It  _ is _ you.” She insisted, and she reached out and gripped his arm firmly to stop him. “You’ve come back… where have you  _ been? _ ”

        “Okay-- look,” He started nervously, pulling his arm back. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else. I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you before in my life.” 

        The last part felt more like a lie than it should have, and maybe it was that hint of hesitation in his voice that caused the anger to ignite in those fiery red eyes. He turned around so as not to face them and tried to walk away. 

        “Stop playing games with me, Azaryne Redoran!” The girl roared, drawing more than one person’s attention away from the market stalls. 

        Her words hit him like a blow to the gut. He stopped, buckled over, his head spinning.

        Eralane. That was her name. But that was little comfort to him now. He watched as she marched triumphantly toward him, rage still seething in her eyes.

        “Where have you been? All this time-- you abandoned us! You left us-- the invasion--- we  _ needed _ you. And you didn’t come back, even then…. Father  _ died  _  in that war!”

        She was holding him by the shoulders now, taking advantage of his lack of balance to make up for the difference in height. He had no choice but to meet her gaze as she pleaded with him for an answer he could not give.

        Reading his silence as a confession, she shoved him back away from her and he staggered a few steps. 

        “Go on then.” She said, turning away. “Go back to whatever life you’re living now. I hope it’s worth it. Just don’t think you can call yourself a Redoran anymore.”

         Azaryne barely registered the stares as Eralane marched her way back through the crowds. It took him several moments just to collect himself before he was able to turn and move away as well. 

        His thoughts were racing as he passed through the stalls again, fighting to keep up with the flood of memories that were hitting him wave after wave. 

        A fortress with a courtyard archery range… Eralane knocking into his bow so that he missed the target. A younger brother laughing into his hand as he watched… Meril. 

        Quietly reading aloud a secret book of adventure stories by the light of a candle and the moon while two young figures listened at the foot of the bed. 

        Carving a piece of wood with a small knife beneath a tree, watching a man tend to the garden of a large Dunmer estate...

        Somewhere in the distance, a merchant was shouting something about an enchanted shield, motioning for Azaryne to take a look, but he passed on without a single word or gesture. The din of merchants, shoppers and line waiters was nothing but a quiet buzz in his ears as he made his way to the Flaming Nix Inn where Irvane was waiting. 

        When he finally reached his bed, he sat down, staring absently at the floor. He vaguely registered Irvane looking up from a book, asking him if he was alright.

        He shrugged, muttering quietly that he was tired before laying down and facing the wall. 

        Even the cold stone bricks were whispering to him, telling him stories of events long-forgotten. Reminding him of a past that felt at once his own and entirely foreign. 

        After several hours, when his eyelids began to droop, it was impossible to tell where memory stopped and dream began.


End file.
